


The Good Circle

by fanfoolishness (LoonyLupin), LoonyLupin



Series: Ouroboros: Aodhan Trevelyan X Dorian Pavus [3]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst and Feels, Circle of Magi, Crestwood, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-02
Updated: 2016-05-02
Packaged: 2018-06-05 20:32:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6722341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoonyLupin/pseuds/fanfoolishness, https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoonyLupin/pseuds/LoonyLupin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dorian and Aodhan Trevelyan have an important conversation in Crestwood regarding past pain.  Dorian does something he's never done before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Good Circle

The rain slicked Dorian’s hair down, plastering it to his head.  He sputtered, sighing as rivulets streamed over his face.  Ferelden; what a damp and dreadful place it had transpired to be.  Not that he had heard otherwise, mind, but hearing there was a whole country that reeked of wet dog, and actually clambering about in the mud, were two entirely different things.  He could think of a thousand places he would rather be, and amused himself trying to name them in alphabetical order.

Aodhan, Dorian noted with interest, seemed to be largely unaffected by the damp chill.  He trotted over the hills of Crestwood eagerly, often getting out of breath; he was still working on building up his endurance, after over a decade in the Circle and the injuries he had sustained at Haven.  Despite that he seemed deeply focused on the task at hand, searching for bandits with them in the countryside.  They needed to whittle down these groups so that those highwaymen in the keep would lack reinforcements, but Dorian found it a dreary business.

Then again, he had never been much for the outdoors, at least this sort of sustained, persistent exposure.  Aodhan seemed to enjoy it, even when he was wiping water out of his eyes and trying to unsquelch his boots from the mud.

Dorian sighed, hoping to commiserate with one of the others, but they were as single-minded as Aodhan.  Cole, disconcerting spirit-thing that he was, wanted to help the villagers; Cassandra was silently stoic, doing what needed to be done.  Neither seemed to be in much the mood for talking.  Dorian gazed around them, noting they were near the docks; a cave beckoned a little further.  Perhaps he could convince the others to shelter there for a bit.

He realized Aodhan had stopped up ahead, bending over a curled figure on the sandy ground.  Dorian shook his head.  There were far too many bodies here, especially for such a small town.  It was a distressingly bleak place.

“Another villager?” he asked, stopping beside Aodhan.  He peered down at the body, which was hard to discern beneath the mud, but there were two broken arrows pinning it to the ground.  

Aodhan bent down and wiped off some of the mud, coming away with a small clasped book.  He undid the clasp, opening the book to the first page.  There was no more writing after that.  He read the words, his brow furrowing.

“She wasn’t a villager,” Aodhan said.  His voice sounded strange.  Dorian looked closely at him, seeing the way the other man’s green eyes narrowed, the sudden twist to his mouth.  “She was a mage.  She – she wanted to help them.”

“Are you all right?” Dorian asked quietly.  “Not to offend, but you look… odd.  Did you know her?”

“Know her?  No,” Aodhan said, pale beneath his freckles.  “They didn’t know her either, and they killed her.”

“War is an ugly business,” said Dorian.  “Too many people caught in the crossfire, sadly.”

Aodhan stared down at the woman, tucking the muddy journal into his knapsack.  “We should – we should burn her remains.  She deserves that much.”

Cassandra and Cole circled back to them, keeping an eye out for bandits.  “There have been many casualties,” Cassandra said sadly.  “She is not the first in the village to fall.”

Aodhan did not correct her.  Instead he said, “Will you speak over her, Cassandra?”  A few small, hesitant flames shivered into being, lighting in Aodhan’s palms.  He frowned at them, then flexed his fingers as if coaxing them to work better.  For a moment they watched him struggle to grow the flames larger.

His face reddened.  “I’ve never been – fire magic has always been my weakest,” he admitted.  His hands strained in front of him, and the flames spread a little larger, but they still would do little in the face of the wet and the mud.  They would not be enough for any kind of cremation.

“Aodhan,” Dorian said softly, leaning next to him.  Their arms brushed, and he could feel the effort Aodhan was using.  “Would you like me to –”

The weak flames in Aodhan’s palms vanished, and he threw up his hands.  “Fine!” he snapped.  “Just – bloody take care of it, will you?”  He stormed off to the cave, disappearing inside its mouth, and Dorian watched him go, hurt and puzzled.

He shook his head, turning back to the others.  Vibrant fire blossomed from his hands, settling down over the body, catching readily even in the damp.  

Cassandra gave the woman’s burning remains a pitying look.  “The Light shall lead her safely through the paths of this world, and into the next,” she intoned.  “For she who trusts in the Maker, fire is her water.”

It was the same Chant as back home, though the cadence was a little different than what he was used to. Dorian mouthed the words with her.

“As the moth sees light and goes toward flame, she should see fire and go towards Light.  The Veil holds no uncertainty for her, and she will know no fear of death, for the Maker shall be her beacon and her shield, her foundation and her sword.”

Cassandra turned to Dorian as the woman’s remains burned.  “Is the Inquisitor all right?  What upset him so?  I have rarely seen him act this way.”

Cole lifted his eyes, his voice sad as he spoke.  “The Circle, a shape like safety, walls weighted against the world.  Fleeing, frightened, free, I want to help.  Souls sorrowed and sick.  They… were afraid.  She was afraid.  She died.”

“Perhaps the villagers thought a mage had brought the undead,” Dorian said, troubled.  He had been in that village, seen the distrust in their eyes, had thought it merely a symptom of being besieged by the dead.  Could they have feared him for what he was?  The thought of fearing a mage for being a mage was nearly anathema, but it _was_ the South…

“They would not always be wrong,” Cassandra said.  “Ten years ago in Redcliffe, a possessed mage nearly destroyed the town with undead.  They were looking for someone to blame.”

“She didn’t know who to be without the walls,” Cole said.  “He’s always known but the walls kept it from him.  Hidden thoughts he doesn’t like to look at, queried questions, sharp and shivering.  Why did I have to go?”  Cole looked at Dorian.  “He wants to talk, but he doesn’t know how.”

Dorian exchanged glances with Cassandra.  “Come on,” he said.  “Let’s get out of this dreadful rain, at least.  I’ll see if I can speak with him.”

***

They gave Aodhan a wide berth at first.  He had hunkered down deep in the belly of the cave, far from the squalling weather at the cave’s mouth.  They found him with his tent set up, sitting on a rock formation beside a fire.  Dorian noted the tinder and flint on the ground beside him, and felt a spasm of pity.  Perhaps he could work with Aodhan in fire magic, if it bothered him to lack that skill.

Cassandra and Cole set up further down into the cave, giving Dorian and Aodhan space to themselves.  Dorian set down his pack, working on setting up the tent.  He had been getting better at it, though he still sometimes got the fiddly bit with the center pole wrong the first try or two.  He could feel Aodhan watching him, but he continued to work in silence.  Sometimes it was better to let the other person speak first, when something had upset them.

Dorian finished with the tent – he’d gotten it entirely right today, a fact he was secretly quite pleased by – and settled in next to the fire, sitting across from Aodhan.  “Hello there,” he said.

Aodhan looked miserable, red hair frizzing around his ears, his wet clothes hanging off of him.  He swallowed.  Dorian ached to look at him.  “I’m – I’m sorry, Dorian.”

“It’s quite all right,” said Dorian gently.  “I can’t chill a bottle of white wine, let alone make a blizzard or a – what was it you called it, a snowman?  Though if you’d like, I can see if we can increase your ability with fire.  I can be a fair teacher when I put my mind to it, you see.”

“Modest as always,” Aodhan said, trying to smile.  The motion seemed to get lost somewhere on the way to his mouth.  “I – yes.  That would be nice.  Maybe I’ve not had the right teachers for work in fire.”  He looked down at his boots.  The mud was barely beginning to dry.

“There’s more, though, isn’t there?”

Aodhan scowled, looking back up at him.  “Yes.  If you must know.”

Dorian considered.   _If you must know._  There was an invitation there, implicit, hidden in the defeated way Aodhan had said the words.  He was asking Dorian not to push.  Not to ask further.  Telling him it would be fine if he didn’t ask at all.  And that might be easier, wouldn’t it?  Not to dwell on something sure to be unpleasant?

But the way Aodhan looked at him, somehow wounded – Dorian could tell that truly, Aodhan wanted to be asked.  Just as a few weeks ago Dorian had wanted to be asked, after the Gull and Lantern.

“I want to know,” said Dorian simply.

Aodhan put his elbows on his knees, reached up to wipe his face with both hands.  He stayed like that for a moment, then lowered his hands.  “All right.  But if we’re to get into this –”  He hesitated.  “I’d rather not be staring you down.  Sit beside me, would you?”

“It would be my pleasure, Inquisitor,” Dorian said.  He obliged, settling next to Aodhan on the rock, inches between them.  “Now… what’s troubling you?”

Aodhan did not meet his gaze.  Instead he fidgeted with his hands, pulling at his cuticles, worrying little bits of skin around the nail until he tore them off.  Dorian hadn’t noticed before how short the man’s nails were, bitten down to nubbins as they were.  A thin red dash brightened on his thumb, a wound from tearing the skin, and Dorian hurriedly took his hands, covering them with his own.

“Careful now!”

“Sorry,” Aodhan said.  “Old habit.”  He paused, his hands relaxing in Dorian’s.  They were cold, but Dorian liked the way they felt against his own.  A fleeting thought – _I’ve never done this before_.  Never sat with a man he’d liked and been attracted to, simply holding his hands, nothing more implied.  His heartbeat quickened at the realization.

“Your hands are perfect as they are,” Dorian said firmly, looking down at old scars, the ragged nails, the cracked skin.  He meant it, too.  “No editing required.”

Aodhan chuckled a little.  It was a dry sound, not quite his usual, but it still heartened Dorian.  “I’ll take that into advisement,” he said.  He hesitated for a moment before continuing.  “It’s something I used to do in the Circle,” he said.  “When things felt too close.  A little discomfort physically… it could take me out of my head, it seemed.  I’ve never really let my hands just be.”  

He leaned against Dorian, cautiously resting his head against Dorian’s shoulder.  Dorian shifted, trying to find a good way for them to sit.  Aodhan’s damp hair was wet against Dorian’s neck, but he did not mind.

“She was a Circle mage,” he offered.

Aodhan nodded on Dorian’s shoulder.  “Yes.”

“The Inquisition can find who killed her, if it was indeed one of the villagers.  If that is important to you.”

“It is, and it isn’t.  It’s… I’m not sure quite what it is.”  He paused, thinking, and Dorian rubbed the back of his hand with the pad of one thumb.  It felt good, the two of them like this.  “I don’t talk much about Ostwick,” he said finally, his voice halting.  “It was a good Circle, I think.  There were few Tranquil.  Easy enough to avoid, if they frightened you with what they meant.  Rare beatings, for infractions that were clear violations.  I only ever saw two abominations before I left, and they were put down quickly; nothing like what we heard about in Kirkwall or Kinloch Hold.  I never felt… hated, there.”

“But…  It sounds like there’s a _but_ ,” said Dorian, fighting back a sinking feeling.  He’d been reluctant to ask Aodhan about the Southern Circles, about the injustices he’d heard about, the beginning of the mage rebellion.  He supposed it had been cowardly of him, preferring not to know; safer that way.

“Not the fun sort, alas,” said Aodhan.  He lifted his head from Dorian’s shoulder, grinning in spite of himself.  

“You are _terrible_ ,” sniffed Dorian, delighted to see Aodhan acting at least a little brighter.

“We both knew that, I’m afraid,” he said.  The grin faded, and Aodhan pulled his hands from Dorian, settling them in his lap, where his fingers knotted together.  He caught Dorian’s look.  “I promise I – I’ll be more careful,” he said. 

“Thank you,” said Dorian.  “I don’t like to see you hurting yourself, you know.”

Aodhan’s smile was smaller, crooked.  “I know.”  His fingers twisted, worrying each other, but Dorian was relieved to see he was not using his jagged fingernails to tear at the skin again.  “It was a good Circle, Dorian.  It’s just that a good Circle is still a _prison_ –” the word sounded charged, dangerous – “– still a _cage_.”  His brows knitted together.  “I had freedoms.  More than many others.  You told me once you knew of the Trevelyan family, yes?”

“I think I may have even met your parents as a boy,” Dorian said.  “They’re extremely distant relations, if I remember…  Oh, don’t worry, there’s at least nine removals between us.  But I recall we used to travel to the Free Marches now and then, establishing contacts.  Influence.  It’s your mother you get the red hair from, isn’t it?”

“And the freckles.  Strange.  I wonder if we ever –”  He shook his head.  “Well, they say a mage must give up all titles, all land, all manners of birth.  They say ‘gives up’ as if it’s a choice.  There is no choice involved, of course.”  Aodhan’s mouth was a thin, tight line.  “Some of the other children, I used to envy them.  They were young enough that when they came to the Circle, they forgot their parents quickly.  The Circle became all they had.  Some of them, at least, seemed happy.”  His knuckles whitened.  

“I was twelve when I froze the pond my brothers and I used to swim in.  Kian and Eimar were nearly caught in it; I still remember how blue they went before my father could pull them free.  I was so frightened…  I didn’t want to leave them.  I knew I was supposed to look after them all; eldest son, heir to the family’s land and titles, the legacy.  Kian and Eimar… I was supposed to protect them, and my magic nearly _killed_ them.  I’ve never forgotten.”

Dorian looked into Aodhan’s eyes.  The grief there tore at him.  “I’m sorry,” he said.  “I don’t know what to say.”  

“We sang the Chant of Light.  I still do.  I knew what was going to happen to me.”  He hung his head.  “When the templars came, I tried to be strong.  The way a noble’s son should be.  I went willingly, even if I cried half the journey.”

“Come here,” Dorian said suddenly, pulling the other man into a fierce embrace.  He held Aodhan there for a moment, closing his eyes, breathing in the scent of damp leather.  “It’s _barbaric_ , is what it is,” Dorian snarled.  “Taking children.  For their gift!”

Aodhan pulled back, looking at Dorian curiously.  “And yet… there’s slavery.”

“I – that is –”  Dorian stared back at Aodhan, fumbling for words, coming up with nothing.  How had this become about _Tevinter_?  “Slaves are _provide_ d for.  Many people choose it, for a better life,” Dorian began.

“The same way I ‘chose’ to go with the templars, Dorian?  Because there was no other choice.  Does that make it right?  The children can’t choose, regardless.”  Aodhan shook his head, closing his eyes.  “But that isn’t – we can debate it further another time.  I didn’t mean to derail myself.”

“Another time then,” said Dorian warily.  Tevinter had its problems, yes, but was slavery the worst of them?  Still though, Aodhan’s words had wormed, uncomfortably, into his head.  He thought of a gangly red-headed youth, ashamed beside a summer-frozen pond; he thought of the same lad at the markets, and he felt sick.

“I ‘gave up’ my nobility,” Aodhan continued.  “But there were still templars at the Circle who knew my family, people who knew the influence we – they – wielded.  It didn’t matter that I never got letters from my family.  They still treated me differently, better.  And even with that…”  His mouth formed a grimace, half-smile, half something else.  “They didn’t hate us, in Ostwick, but we did not know trust, either.  Yet they only searched _my_ quarters once or twice a month, checking for illicit materials or signs of blood magic.  I got kitchen duty for what they deemed ‘dalliances’ with other men instead of solitary confinement.”  He looked pained.  “And in my greatest victory as a noble, heir to my family’s estate and wealth and influence, I had gardening privileges four days a week.  Twice as many as anyone else.  Four days a week, two hours a day, I could feel the sun or the rain or the wind in my hair.  And I thought myself _lucky_ ; I thought it was the best that I could get, and I was glad.”

Dorian gazed at him, remembering the Pavus estates, languid walks in the mornings, evenings spent on the veranda; he remembered Qarinus, Minrathous, sizzling summers and cool lush winters, explosive springs and soft autumns.  Above all else, he remembered the ability to come and go as he chose, even if he was not _meant_ to; even if he was threatened to stop, he still could go where he wished.  Until those last few months.

“My parents forced me back home to their estates,” Dorian said.  “Before I fled Tevinter.  I believe it was three months of confinement before I found my father’s plans for the – the ritual –”  He stumbled over the words, the sudden lump in his throat.  He did not know if he would ever be able to speak of it easily, if the wound would ever scar instead of remaining raw.  “The point is, it was only three months.  And it was the worst I’ve ever felt.”

Aodhan nodded.  “It hasn’t been until the Circles have dissolved that I’ve realized… just what it was I’ve been trapped in.  Even going there at a later age, remembering what life was like before… it’s hard, when that’s your existence for fifteen years.  Everything becomes so normal.”  

His hands jittered in his lap again, and Dorian took them into his own once more.  They were warmer now, more familiar this time.  “Seeing that poor woman today… she only wrote a little in her journal.  I think she was starting to realize what the Circle had been, but she was scared, too.  Scared to leave the only thing she’d ever known.  And she took a few steps outside, tried to help, and –”  He fell silent for a moment.  “How many other mages are dying because they don’t know how to live in the outside world?  How many are dying because people mistrust them?  What I’m really frightened of is – what if we need the Circles to _protect_ us?”

“ _No_ ,” said Dorian vehemently, his hands tightening on Aodhan’s.  “You cannot think that way.  The South has to change.  Tevinter does not have all the answers, but the Circles cannot stay as they have been.  Don’t regret leaving Ostwick, Aodhan.  It needed to be done.  And if the Circle has damaged some mages too badly for life outside, then try to make something _new_ – Circles as academies, or as safe havens – but do not return to the status quo.  You don’t deserve that.  No mage does.”

Aodhan leaned forward, resting his forehead against Dorian’s.  It was a startling gesture; his pulse quickened, feeling Aodhan’s nose just against his, the puff of the other man’s breath on his face.  Dorian closed his eyes for a moment, just… feeling.  Being.

“Thank you,” Aodhan whispered.

“For what?”

“For doing for that mage what I couldn’t,” he said, his voice still hushed.  “Even when I didn’t know how to ask you properly.  Thank you for listening to me.  And thank you for – for being you.”

“What else could I be?” Dorian murmured.  He leaned in, closing the few inches between them, and slanted his mouth over Aodhan’s.  

The kiss was soft and warm, a little deeper, a little slower, than their kisses had been so far.  They were still new to each other, still learning what could be done, but in this regard Dorian felt unexpectedly at ease; they were naked right now with each other in a way that had nothing to do with nudity, and somehow Dorian felt… _right._

They stayed like that a moment, bodies pressed close together, their kisses languid and tender.  Reluctantly Dorian pulled himself away, remembering Cassandra and Cole further down the passage; it would not do to take things too far.  The reluctance in Aodhan’s eyes tested him sorely.

“Are you all right?” Dorian asked, not for the first time this day.

Aodhan considered, his lips thinning, an expression of contemplation on his face.  He nodded.  “I’m going to be, I think,” he said.  He grinned ruefully.  “Shall we let the others know?  Cassandra is probably going mad, cooped up with Cole.”

“They haven’t become bosom buddies just yet, if that’s what you mean,” said Dorian wryly.  He got to his feet, wincing.  He’d become quite sore, sitting on these hard stones.  “You do realize you can talk to me, don’t you?”

“I do,” said Aodhan, and stood up as well, stretching.  Dorian watched him appreciatively.  He _did_ like a man taller than himself.  There was just something appealing about it, though he suspected he would have become smitten with Aodhan no matter what he looked like.  He was interrupted from his musings with another kiss, this one sharp and sweet and over before he’d realized what had happened.

“Quite rude,” said Dorian in a mock huff.

“Excellent,” said Aodhan mildly.  “Exactly what I meant it to be, then.”  He reached out, running a hand down Dorian’s arm, letting go after a squeeze.  “Come on.  Let’s go sort things out with the others.”

Dorian bowed with a flourish.  “Your wish is my command, Inquisitor.”  He followed behind Aodhan through the cave, his relief a buoyant, vibrant thing within his chest.  Suddenly he felt almost fond of the musty, damp, dripping cave.  There were worse places to be, he decided; and somehow, few better.

**Author's Note:**

> I've never played a Circle mage before, or a noble, and wanted to dive in and sort out some thoughts about what it might have been like. Ostwick Circle is never described as being particularly bad, especially when compared to Kinloch Hold and Kirkwall, but a prison's still a prison. Other notes: Aodhan apparently has mild dermatillomania, as I do. Hoping that it gets a bit better for him, being out of the Circle.


End file.
